


Heavenly Body

by ColonelSquanders



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, Polyjuice Potion, Sort Of, autoeroticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 11:51:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19440901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColonelSquanders/pseuds/ColonelSquanders
Summary: As she prepares to break into Bellatrix's vault, Hermione has a lot on her mind.





	Heavenly Body

They were finally ready to do this, after weeks of careful planning. Hermione reviewed the preparations for her part of the plan one last time - it was only prudent, and she hadn't received her reputation for brilliance through slip-shod work. The Transfigured clothes were laid out on the bed; she had even come up with a little charm that would allow her to put the corset on without assistance. Not that she couldn't have asked Fleur for help, but the less that she and Bill knew about what Hermione and her friends were about to try, the better.

Besides, she wanted this moment for herself. 

She glanced at the vial on the table by the window, filled with a thick, mudlike potion - the last of their supply of Polyjuice. Next to the vial was **her** wand. Hermione picked it up and turned it over in her hands. She ran a finger along its length and was was filled with so many conflicting emotions. She knew that she held a murder weapon, and she had personal experience on the receiving end of its use as an implement of torture. Nevertheless, the curved walnut wand performed so well for her that she did not feel diminished by the loss of her own wand like Harry had when his holly wand was broken. The experience of wielding it was subjectively different - while her vinewood wand had caressed her magic, this one was much more forceful - but she somehow instinctually understood how to use it to great effect. Wand lore wasn't one of her major areas of expertise, but she knew that it was highly unusual to win a wand's loyalty to such a degree without defeating its previous owner. She had considered approaching her fellow guest at Shell Cottage, Mr. Ollivander, to question him about it, but in the end had decided against it. She wasn't sure that she even wanted to know why the loathsome thing complemented her magic so well.

A soft knock on the door interrupted her reverie. The door opened a crack, revealing Ron's face. "'Mione? We're ready," he said in an uncharacteristically subdued voice. Whether it was nerves at what they were about to attempt, or concern over her own state, barely a month after the events of Malfoy Manor, she didn't know. In the aftermath of that one particular night, her own emotions were quite enough to deal with.

"I'm ready, too. I just need to take the potion and change clothes. I'll meet you outside."

"Right. I can't believe we're going to do this," he replied, closing the door behind him. She listened as his footsteps retreated down the hall and began descending the stairs.

Hermione reached into her beaded handbag and found a vial containing two curly black hairs. She carefully extracted one and re-stoppered the vial, which went back into the handbag. Unstoppering the Polyjuice, she dropped the hair she still held between her fingers into it, watching as its color changed to black. Transferring the potion to a shot glass that she had brought up from the cottage's kitchen, she could see that it had the consistency of olive oil, or perhaps syrup. Hermione couldn't help but wonder how it would taste as she gently lifted the glass and held it up before her eyes. The potion within was the darkest black that Hermione had ever seen, completely opaque even as she held it directly between her eye and the bright morning sun. After a few moments, she set the glass back down on the table. Taking a half step back, she shrugged off her muggle clothing, leaving it on the floor in the middle of the room. Gently closing her fingers around the glass again, she lifted it to her lips, tipped its contents into her mouth, and swallowed.

Hermione shuddered at the intensely bitter taste of the potion, but the bitterness was quickly replaced by a sweet flavor reminiscent of aniseed. She could feel a not-unpleasant heat deep within her breast. Quickly moving across the room to the mirror, she watched as she transformed into the woman who haunted her dreams every night. The color drained from her skin, its customary brown color bleaching to deathly paleness. Her bushy hair blackened and rearranged itself into sleek ringlets, but lost nothing of its original volume. She met her reflection's gaze and gasped softly as she watched her warm brown eyes become heavily-lidded black pits. Immediately, she was taken away, back to _that_ memory, of that one night at Malfoy Manor.

_She could hardly control the twitching of her limbs as her body was racked by the lingering remnants of the just-lifted Cruciatus curse. As awareness of her surroundings flooded back to her, the first thing she noticed was the vise-like grasp of a bony hand on her face, forcing her to look into those cold, cold eyes. Hermione couldn't help but imagine that she would be stuck forever in them, never escaping, as if she were an insect trapped in hardening amber. **She** seemed to be thinking along those same lines, a smirk gracing those ruby lips so stark against the bone-white face. The witch was kneeling over her, pinning her to the floor as she straddled her hips. Leaning down, she pressed her corset-clad body against the younger girl's as she brought those spiteful lips close to her victim's ear, her inky black hair forming a veil around her face. "Just tell me what else you took, my pretty little mudblood, and then we can have some _real_ fun," she crooned softly, punctuating her words by nipping at Hermione's ear with stained teeth and rocking her hips forward to grind against the stomach of the girl trapped beneath her. Hermione shuddered, feeling the heat between her captor's thighs pressed against her, and was horrified to find her own body responding in kind, an answering heat building deep within her abdomen._

With great effort, she wrenched her mind back to the present and gazed at her transformed reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the black image of the Dark Mark on her left forearm. She knew that a Polyjuice transformation couldn't duplicate the magic inherent in the Mark. Nevertheless, she found it disturbing to have its image on her body and looked away, trying to ignore it. Lifting her chin and pushing her now-ebon hair aside, she examined the number - 93 - tattooed on her neck. She let her tresses fall back into place, then, trembling, she lightly traced her now-bony fingers along the most prominent of several scars adorning her belly, a long white line stretching from just below her left breast down across her right hip, a testament perhaps to some battle waged in the service of You-Know-Who, or maybe to a prison altercation in Azkaban. Similar scars adorned the rest of **her** body, adding to Hermione's fascination. Moving her hands upward, she gently cupped those breasts she vividly remembered pressing against her back as **she** held her, one unyielding arm wrapped about her waist while the other held a knife to her throat. The heat inside her was building again at the memory, and Hermione could not help sliding a hand between her thighs. Already wet with arousal, she ground the palm of her hand against her mound and let out a moan. Hearing her own arousal expressed in **her** voice, it was all she could do not to explore this absolutely heavenly body any further. Time was, however, not something she had to spare. Regretfully, she took one last long glance in the mirror and walked over to the bed to dress.

Having dressed, Hermione slid **her** wand up her sleeve and into its holster, took up her beaded handbag, and left the room. She listened to the click of her heeled boots, remembering how that same sound had echoed through a shadowy drawing room in Malfoy Manor. Meeting Griphook at the bottom of the stairs, they left the cottage together. As they walked across the lawn to meet her friends, she could see loathing written plainly across Harry's face, and, though he tried to hide it behind a a brave face, she could see trepidation seeping into Ron's features.

"She tasted _disgusting_ , worse than Gurdyroots!," she lied, in **her** voice, trying to break the tension and put her friends at ease. Inside, though, she was thinking about the vial with the remaining hair she had safe in her beaded bag. If she survived this war, she would brew the Polyjuice Potion again. Then she wouldn't have to share the experience of being **her** with anyone else, and maybe she could find a little closure for what had happened to her on that one night.


End file.
